Kickoff
by AsiaProductions23
Summary: Moscow, December 2002. He was 24. She was 18. He was the best SHIELD agent. She was the number one Assassin in Eastern Europe. He was going to assassinate her. She was going to change his mind. His name is Clint Barton. Her name is Natasha Romanoff. Rated T for violence, language, and sexual themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

I've always wanted to write a Clintasha/BlackHawk story, but I just didn't know where to start. I recently re-watched the Avengers and just felt compelled to! So, it's a story on how Clint and Natasha met each other. Please REVIEW and ENJOY! Lots of love,

AsiaProductions!

* * *

_December 2__nd__, 2002_ _12:45_- S.H.I.E.L.D Hellicopter

"Your target," Phil said casually as he dropped the manila folder next to Clint. He walked back to his spot at the head of the conference table and watched as the archer opened the folder. "Her name is Natalia Romanova, most call her Natasha Romanoff; codename: Black Widow. Russian Assassin that worked for the government and now for hire."

Clint quietly, quickly, and efficiently began to read the profile on his target. He first off looked at the picture that SHIELD had illegally acquired through technological means. It was from a street shot of a young teenage girl with long bright red curls. She had dark blue eyes and bright white skin. She was extremely pretty and looked quite innocent- a decent façade for a trained killer.

"She's so young," Clint muttered as he then looked at her date of birth. Clint read that she was born at the end of November 1984. Just turned 18.

"She's not _that_ much younger than you- what six years?" Phil countered calmly as always. He then cleared his voice and said, "Don't let her age and youth deceive you. She's a killer, Barton. You let her façade get to you for just a second, you'll be dead the next."

Clint brushed him off and simply said, "No shit, Coulson." He got the game of deception and assassins faster than he got the game of tic-tac-toe. He could easily see past pretty eyes, like Natasha Romanoff's, and see into the soul of a cold blooded assassin. He wasn't trying to be all nostalgic and all knowing, but it was true. He could see those things; it was apart of his job. "I can tell."

"Of course you can," Coulson smirked.

Clint began to rummage through all of the details of the young girl's life- it was not a pleasant one, but Clint was accustomed to that: parents died in a fire when she was five, grabbed by the government, trained to be an agent starting at the age of six, brainwashed, and then became (probably) the best assassin in Russia. It almost reminded Clint of his history-

"I can see your doubting whether you should be doing this job or not, Barton," Fury said lowly as he walked into the conference with Agent Hill right beside him.

"I mean, Director, she's only 18- she's just a kid even," Clint tried to illustrate his perspective on the issue at hand. "W…what did she do to deserve to be assassinated by S.H.I.E.L.D. If we are involved with this, then that is a big deal. For stuff like this, we let the CIA or other groups handle this. It isn't our jurisdiction-"

"Turn to page 3," Fury instructed casually, without looking towards Clint. "Bottom of the page."

Clint nodded as he did what he was told to. He looked down and when he saw the number, Clint simply muttered, "I see." 192 deaths by one single girl- and those are the only known ones.

"Just because she's got a pretty face, Barton, doesn't mean she's an angel," Fury said. "Take her down. If someone like her continues to grow and live like this, there might be no stopping her."

Clint nodded and raised an eyebrow, "When's my flight?"

* * *

_December 5__th__, 2002,_ _21:12_- Moscow_._

From his perch on top of a tall building in the middle of Moscow, Clint pulled out his binoculars. In the building directly 75 degrees east of him, he began searching on the eighth floor of the apartment building for Natasha Romanoff. He found her in one of the windows wearing a deep gray ¾ sleeved dress that suck to her skin like glue, and her thin waist was sucked in by a light black belt. She looked quite nice as her red curls fell down her back. She was with actually two other men at the time, one approaching her from the front and another from the back- and not in a fun way.

Clint saw a massive streak of blood as Romanoff diligently shot the gun (with a silencer of course) into the shorter man's head. She then back round house kicked the other guy in the nose, proceeded to kick him the gut, and diligently snap his neck.

Clint smirked.

Natasha leaned down and began rummaging through the larger man's coat pocket. She pulled out a small hard drive and began examining it to make sure it was the correct one. She slid on what looked like a beige trench coat, slipped on some very expensive looking shoes, and put the hard drive in her breast pocket.

Clint watched her as she stealthily slid out of the window. She didn't hesitate at all, despite being eight stories high. She carefully slid across on the ledge to the room on the left from the one where she had just killed two men. She slid into the window and began to walk through the halls- or so Clint assumed.

Patiently, Clint waited to see Romanoff appear from the Front/Main Entrance or the side exit. Within two minutes and 19 seconds, Romanoff walked out the front door, politely saying goodbye to the doorman. She walked quickly, but confidently, due west through the crowded streets of Moscow.

From the building tops, Clint followed her, keeping a very close eye on her. Like most assassins, Clint knows when he is being followed- so he assumed that Romanoff had the instinct as well. He learned that staying on rooftops kept the distance, but maintained a visual on his targets.

Romanoff walked for twenty minutes South West until she came to the rich, side of Moscow. He knew for a fact that he could not afford to ever walk in there.

Since Clint was in his fancy civvies and was not currently carrying his bow and arrow, he looked like a normal civilian. He slid down from the roof and began walking towards the bustling, crowded, and loud streets of Moscow. He managed to blend in well- well enough that people wouldn't notice him enough to prevent themselves from spitting right in front of him.

_This _was the reason why Clint hated people.

Clint walked into the beautiful restaurant. It had high ceilings with paintings on it and chandeliers hanging low. There was a bar on the left side with numerous alcoholic beverages to choose from. Most of the tables were on the right and sat up to 18 people, but there were smaller tables. Many people were there- dressed in different garbs from all over the world. Thank god, Maria gave him this gray Armani suit just in case if the mission required it. Luckily, he took the hint that this might happen tonight. (Or he was really just good at following patterns. Natasha had come here every night for the past two nights, but left alone).

The host asked him in Russia if he has a reservation or if he is meeting someone.

Clint quickly examined the room for Romanoff. He found her sitting alone, with her back faced towards him, in the middle of the tables a two-sitter. She currently had a vodka martini handed to her by a waiter.

Clint replied no in semi-fluent Russian and revealed that he just wanted a drink at the bar. The host nodded with a smile and motioned him towards the bar. He took his place at the bar between a young couple and a bunch of girls (his age or maybe even younger) who found him quite interesting. He ordered a scotch on the rocks casually as he watched Natasha Romanoff sit and drink.

There was no denying her beauty. For someone as young as her, she sure knew how to act mature. Most girls her age would be partying, studying for midterms at college, or working a job- but no, Natasha Romanoff was the perfect cold assassin. In the past two nights, Romanoff had killed five men. She wouldn't shake afterwards, take a deep breath afterwards, or anything like that. She would just simply look away and go about her business.

A girl with golden blond hair, big green eyes, and pale skin smiled at him. She was wearing a teal dress that really did show off a lot of her body, in that vulgar way. It wasn't that the girl was ugly- she was far from it. But, Clint was busy now.

"Melina," the girl smiled as she put out her hand daintily.

Clint quickly checked if Natasha was still sitting at the table, and she was, slowly sipping away at her drink and checking her watch. He turned to the girl out of politeness and simply said, "Clint."

"American?" The girl asked in Russian, trying to make idle small talk.

Clint nodded indifferently, and his attention re-focused on Romanoff. She was now sitting with some older guy that was maybe thrice her age. He was holding her hand, and rubbing her knee. Romanoff pursed her lips as the man did so. She pulled back her hand, giving him the hard drive. She also pulled back her leg and crossed it underneath her other one.

The man smiled as he passed her large manila envelope. She checked inside, nodded, and put it in her purse. The man stood up, kissed her hand, and walked away.

"What part?" The Russian girl asked.

"Iowa," Clint said, still eyeing Romanoff who kept drinking her beverage.

"Iowa?" The girl repeated in a high voice. "Is that a big city?"

Out of frustration with the girl and the desire to make it clear that he had no intention on hooking up with ehr, Clint turned to her and said in fairly decent Russian, "A State. America has fifty states. America has 50 states- Iowa is a state."

"Oh I see," The girl said as she scratched her head gently.

Clint turned back to Natasha's table, but there was no Natasha. Not even her drink was there. _Dammit, _Clint cursed mentally. And this was the night, he was going to take out his mark. _Fury is going to kill me-_

"Sorry, honey," a sultry low voice said in Russian.

Clint turned around to see that it was Natasha Romanoff beside him. She looked up at him and winked.

_Oh shit. Not good- not good at all._

She then looked back at the girl and said in Russian, "Sorry girls, he's with me. There's no show tonight."

The Russian Girl and her friends huffed in frustration and walked away. Natasha moved next to him and sipped her drink. She looked up at him and said fluently in English, "I don't like being followed. It makes me feel like I have a stalker. Especially if it has been for the last three nights in a row."

Clint didn't really know how to react at first. He took a deep breath and asked coolly, "Have you had one before?"

Romanoff seemed to like that one. She flipped her hair back and said, "No, but I have been followed closely before." She then looked at him appraisingly, "American?"

"Is it obvious?" Clint asked, trying to remain as calm as possible.

"Just a bit," Romanoff shrugged. She let one elbow lean against the bar and said, "You have… how do people in your language say it… American Swagger?"

Clint chuckled lowly, "Some do. Is that the only reason?"

Natasha smiled coyly, "Well, it would be an American spy following me. A Russian, never. The Russians prefer to leave me alone to do their dirty work, as you probably know."

Clint frowned at her. She was _good. _She had made it seem like she was oblivious to the fact that she was being tracked, and was so calm about everything.

She flipped her hair back naturally as she got closer to him. Clint could feel the heat of her body press against his skin as she whispered, "I know you are here to kill me, _America_."

Clint stiffened for a quick mili-second before relaxing again. He looked down at the 5'5 girl and said, "What would lead you to that impression?"

Natasha leaned back and said, "The fact that you've been following me up in the building tops for the past three nights, you're not Russian, you're not any of my accomplices or previous employers, and lastly, I know for a fact that the length in your pants is a _gun, _and not something more personal."

Clint smirked, "Very good." He then gave her back those cold secretive eyes and asked, "Where would you like to do this then?"

Natasha laughed lightly as she raised an eyebrow. She then scoffed, "What a gentleman." She set her drink down and slid her jacket through her arms. She flipped her outside of the collar. She slid her bag onto her shoulder and made sure she had her manila folder again. She then stood up on her tip toes and whispered hotly, "Count to ten and you'll figure it out, America."

Clint turned around to watch her leave. In the back of his head he had been counting, he was currently on 3. What was she playing at?

Natasha was very close to completely leaving before a woman from the table adjacent from Natasha's table said to a waiter loudly, "I think the table is ticking, Sir."

Clint's eyes widened and before he could stop himself, he shouted in Russian, "It's a bomb!" He re-focused on Natasha who had simply smirked at him and then began rushing out of the building.

Clint was on nine as he ran out of the building. He saw Natasha's red hair and quickly followed her by running after her. He felt the bomb just a moment later. It wasn't big, but it was enough to create a commotion.

She looked at him and frowned. She then disappeared into the crowd. Clint followed through the crowd and so her red hair bob through the chaotic crowd. He made sure to stay on her tail though.

When they got far enough away, Natasha began running through the streets and Clint followed. They ran for what seemed like miles until they reached the slums of Moscow.

People watched and moved out of the way for the two assassins. They got all the way to an abandoned factory. He pulled out his gun and shot at her feet. Natasha jumped out of the way and crouched down.

"Secluded enough for you?" Natasha asked as she raised an eyebrow.

"I prefer privacy," Clint smiled coolly back.

Natasha ran at him and began throwing well-aimed punches. Clint began dodging skillfully. He then managed to get a good swift kick to the gut. She bent over naturally, but then recovered by grabbing the next punch. He pulled him straight so that she would be close enough to punch him in the throat.

Clint coughed as he kicked back her feet. She almost fell, but pushed herself back up with her arms and kicked Clint with both of her legs in his chest. He stumbled back.

She wiped her hair back before running back at him. He punched using his bow, but Natasha grabbed the string to stop it. She twisted it around, but Clint grabbed her close by the back of her head. He pulled back and she groaned at the pain. She kicked him in the groin and he lurched forward. She stepped on his foot and threw his bow aside.

Clint dodged her next punch and then punched his the solarplex. He pushed her down, clenching her legs together with his, he pressed her biceps down to the ground with his elbows, and then pressed a knife to her throat.

They stayed in this position for what seemed like forever. Their breathing was in synch, their chests were pressed against each other, and their faces were right in front of each other.

Natasha looked down at the knife and then back up at him. She closed her eyes for a long moment and breathed slowly. She gulped and frowned. "Do it. What are you waiting for?" She hissed at him.

Clint pressed it closer to her throat. He was nearly .5 inches from breaking skin. He looked into her eyes and underneath the dark blue eyes of power, strength, and calmness, Clint saw something else: he saw relief. Relief that only one who had experienced pain and torture would truly understand. Relief from the world that took everything from her and never gave back- Clint understood.

"I'm not killing you," Clint breathed as he pulled back. He stood up quickly as Natasha furrowed her eyebrows out of confusion and surprise while leaning up on her forearms.

Clint dropped the knife and moved back a step. "I'm not going to kill you, Romanoff."

After a long stare down, Natasha swallowed her pride to ask, "Why?"

Clint didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know why he was doing this. Clint was the top field agent and pretty much the only one. He knew how to listen to orders and do his job. He killed plenty of people, women too- which he wasn't always proud of, but he had done it. He had killed other assassins, so why did this one _girl _who had killed almost as many people as he.

"You have a raw gift," Clint said. "And you deserve better than the life you live."

"Oh бог," groaned Natasha. She got up and stood her ground. "I'm not trying to be salvaged by some American who does the same job as I do just because he follows a _democratic _government and a license. I don't need pity or salvation from you."

"I'm not offering pity or salvation," Clint made himself clear. He gulped and said, "I'm offering you a job."

Natasha raised an eyebrow and for a moment said nothing. "You want _me_ to work for _you_?"

Clint shook his head softly, "No. With me. My company could use someone with your skill set."

Natasha walks up to his face and tilted her head ever so slightly and whispered against his jaw. "Why would I do something like that? I like my job now."

Clint looked down at her and simply said, "You're lying."

Natasha looked shocked for a moment before stepping back and said, "I'd rather you kill me. I don't belong to anyone. I work temporarily for people and I live by my own laws."

Clint scoffed, "Keep believing that, Miss Romanoff. But you and I both know that is not how you see your life." He picked up his gun and put it back between his belt and his shirt. "I'm staying for one more night after tonight. December 7th at 0700, I'm gone and you will never see me again, Romanoff." He then picked up his knife and shoved it back in his belt. "I'm staying at the Hotel Swissotel Krasnye Homly, you know where it is probably. Come and find me if you want the job. If you don't, I get it. But, if you need help in the next two days, I got your back. My name is Clinton Hawk."

He turned around and began walking out, cracking his neck.

"What's your real name?"

Clint turned around and said, "Clinton Hawk."

Natasha scoffed, "You're lying." She brushed a piece of her hair back and simply said, "You have everything on me. And I don't even know your real name."

Clint sighed and said, "Clint Barton."

Natasha nodded, "It was meeting you, Mr. Barton. I will never see you again."

"I hope that's not true, Miss Romanoff," Clint said honestly as he blinked. When he opened his eyes again, she was gone.

* * *

**Review** I really hope that it goes well. They mean a lot to me :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Thank you to all my followers, the reviewers, and favorite-rs (?). It means a lot, it really does. Keep it coming! REVIEW PLEASE and ENJOY!

AND THANK YOU CLINTASHA101 about telling me that they are the same chapter. Whoops!

* * *

_December 6th, 2002 21:28- Moscow_

Clint hadn't left his room since he had gotten home last night at 11ish. He came to his room, took a long shower, ordered a bottle of the strongest vodka that the hotel had to offer, and slept for the longest since he had joined SHIELD: 15 hours.

When Clint woke up, he lazily watched TV and ate as he kept re-reading Natasha Romanoff's File. He found a lot of interest in the psychological report on Romanoff:

_SHIELD has never encountered someone like Romanova. She is psychological weapon, easily considered to be the best of her kind. We have kept a close eye on her, never finding a true need to intervene with her life, until recently. Until now, we thought that the CIA or the Russian government would've taken care of Romanova, but it is not possible apparently. She manipulates men using her body and her status as a young woman to grab their attention, seduce them, and then let down their wall so she can easily kill her target without a second thought. _

_It has been noticed that Romanoff does not demonstrate remorse, doubt, or fear when it comes to her job. She excels in quick and clean assassinations. _

_It would be foolish to think that anyone could trust, please, or understand Romanova because she would not do the same for the other. Through SHIELD's knowledgeable background on Romanova's history, it is hard to blame Romanova otherwise. Her parents died in a Hospital fire. She was the one of the only survivors. Instead of Russian Social Services picking her up, the government did. She was trained by them at the tender age of six to become an emotionless, accurate, lying killing machine. It is unknown how the government manipulated and brainwashed the young girl, but it is assumed it was most likely traumatic. These traumatic events until the age of 14 (the time when she ran away from the government), it is assumed that these events culminated into a very important part of Romanova's psyche. Working for hire is also not an easy career or life for one to live properly. She has been on her own for 4 years with no boss, but herself. She lives on her own accords and her rules, making her that much more lethal. She has no one to tell her that she has gone too far, no one to tell her to stop and think, and no one to tell her that she has another chance at life if she were to stop. She lives limitlessly, which is probably the most dangerous quality about her- _

Clint put down the file on the table as he looked down at the city of Moscow. The lights beamed brightly in the streets, people bustled around in the cold city, and the building stood tall. Now, the thing about Clint is that he could see the people for who they were, but he couldn't see anyone he needed to.

In the back of his head, Clint knew for a fact that Romanoff wasn't coming. Clint was _that_ person in her life: the annoyance. Her life finally began to work out for her, in her own way. She works for herself, like the file had said. No one would ever tear her down from her high pedestal. She was the assassin that everyone wanted. Why would she leave it for a new life, working for a group like SHIELD-

_Ring~! Ring~! Ring~!_

Clint looked at the hotel phone, knowing that it was most likely the hotel waking him up just in case he didn't wake up from last night's sleep. He picked it up and said blandly, "Hello."

"Good evening, Mr. Barton."

Clint stiffened when he heard the voice- the low, seductive, barely-Russian accented voice female voice that belonged to the one and only Natasha Romanoff. After a quick moment of silence, Clint replied, "How are you, Miss Romanoff?"

"I've been better," Natasha said indifferently. "I actually feel quite horrible."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Romanoff," Clint said. "Have you thought about my offer?"

"Thoroughly, Mr. Barton," She said in a matter of fact tone. "It's one hell of an offer. I thought about it all last night."

"Do you have a verdict?" He asked, trying his best to patient with the assassin on the other line.

There was another long silence that was combined with long breaths. After a few minutes of peaceful breathing on both ends, Natasha cleared her throat. "I'd really like to accept your offer, Mr. Barton," said Natasha, earnestly. "But-"

Buts were never good with Clint. She had rejected the offer, with that simple word _but_. Now he was pretty screwed-

"If I were to leave Russia and the life I have behind," Natasha went on simply. "Everything would change wouldn't it?" Her voice dropped a bit, didn't it? The confidence disappeared and so did the vigor that made her Natasha Romanoff. She didn't sound like herself- worry overflowed her voice.

For a moment, she turned back into Natalia Romanova. The innocence of a child returned.

"I would be working for people, a team? Or what?" Natasha asked quickly and in a panicked voice. "How can I suddenly become someone else? How could I suddenly atone for my sins? I've killed 197 men in my life, Barton. I've killed so many men that I forgot their faces. I've slept with men trice my age even and then killed them in their sleep- I don't remember those either. I've hurt the innocent and used the loyal. How am I supposed to make up for the red in that file you have on me? How will I ever be perceived as someone like you? No one will look at the same. I wont look at myself in the same way. But I can't go back to this life. I can't be that person anymore. I'm done with being exploited and used as a soldier."

Terror began to replace the panic, and he could hear that Natasha was wiping off tears from her cheeks.

"I could never go back to those people," Natasha went on, coughing. "There is no other option. Is there? Death or you. Those are my options. Relief from everything or remorse and reliving the pain that I caused? Which one would you choose, Mr. Barton?"

From outside, Clint heard a sniff from outside the same time he heard it over the phone. He walked towards his door and opened it as Natasha asked him her last question again.

Natasha Romanoff didn't look like herself. The confidence, passion, and strength were replaced with terror, remorse, and pain. She looked like she had been beaten with a psychological bat. Her dark blue eyes were glassed over with tears. Her red hair was a bit messy with a bun at the top of her head. She was wearing a ripped and torn black pencil skirt with a torn white button down shirt, revealing her gray lace bra underneath slightly. She was holding a cellphone to her ear and a small pistol with a silencer attached. But unlike most who looked pained, Natasha looked like fairly calm. The tears fell down her face, but she didn't look like she was going to break down.

Black Widow would never ever break down that far.

Natasha took the phone away from her ear and clicked end. She took the gun by the silencer and put it out arms length to Clint. She looked up at him before wiping her eyes and said, "I choose relief from everything."

Clint clicked the phone off. He looked down at the gun and then back at the beautiful, now vulnerable, young woman. He watched her as she made another motion for him to take the gun and said, "Please take the shot that you didn't last night."

Clint looked at the gun and asked slowly, already knowing the answer, "You pick death?"

Natasha nodded, "You don't want to work with a person like me, and I don't want your kindness to be deemed as incompetence when you return tomorrow."

Clint looked down the hallway and said, "It would be stupid of me to shoot you out here, Miss Romanoff-"

"Please, call me Natasha," She demanded in a soft voice.

"Natasha," Clint said.

"I also already hacked the video cameras for this floor. I switched the actual footage with a picture of the hall taken when no one was on this floor," Natasha clarified, wiping a set of tears off her face.

If the circumstances were different, Clint would've smiled.

"Fine." Clint opened the door further and said, "We should take this inside."

Natasha's eyes widened at Clint's words. She nodded as she walked into his hotel room.

"Take off your clothes," Clint said nonchalantly as he went into the kitchen nook and pulled out a plastic bag. "Leave your underwear on."

Natasha looked down and blinked. _Oh. _She slid off her shirt and let her skirt pool to her trembling feet. She let the bun fall off too. "Might as well end this with someone I can tolerate," she muttered in quick Russian, knowing that Clint Barton was too good to be true. He was just like every other man she had every slept with, except she didn't want to kill him.

Clint picked up her clothes and threw them into a bag. He looked up and nearly had a heart attack when he saw Natasha Romanoff approaching him. He watched her carefully as she rested her hands on his chest and leaned in.

"What are you doing?" Clint muttered breathlessly as he looked down at her as she began to lightly, very lightly, kiss his neck. She feathered his neck with kisses that would make any man go crazy.

"Making up for the trouble," Natasha whispered hoarsely against his neck, letting her breath cascade down hotly. She then began nipping at the skin right below his ear, and Clint knew for a fact that if he let her keep going, he wont let her stop.

"Stop- Stop," Clint said semi-assertively as he pushed Natasha back by the shoulders, holding her away. "W-we aren't going to do this, Natasha."

"Is this not what you meant when you said take off your clothes?" Natasha asked a bit surprised as she wiped off some more tears from her face.

Clint picked up a blue Kimono robe (provided by the hotel) and threw at it her. "I was going to take care of your wounds."

Natasha took it and just held it as she stared at him. She gulped before saying, "Why would you do that before killing me?"

Clint raised an eyebrow as he was getting his first aid kit. He then looked at her and said, "You only assumed that I was going to kill you." He motioned for her to sit down the couch.

Natasha slid the robe over her body and sat where she was told. She watched as Clint began putting ointments on her cuts. He was kind with her, but not gentle. Natasha knew that he knew that she didn't like to be treated like a princess or gently. He could read her so easily, but why couldn't she do the same? "Why arent you going to kill me? Your company doesn't approve of what I do. Nor do you probably. I deserve punishment, don't I? Why aren't you following your orders, Mr. Barton?"

"Because you have way too much talent to be killed at such a young age," revealed Clint. He then wrapped her foot in a bandage and said, "It's not reliving the pain by the way."

Natasha furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, even though she got the reference she had just made earlier.

"It's revenge against the people who made you cause pain," said Clint. "It's not revenge for yourself, but revenge on the people who made you do those things- for the people who you harmed through those who made you."

He leaned foreword, resting his elbows on his knees, and went on, "The things you've done weren't by your initial doing. You started when you were five, right? When you were first learning how to aim a gun, girls your age were learning how to tie their shoes. When you were first learning how to slit someone's throat with a knife, girls your age were learning how to ride bicycles. And when you left the Russian government to be your own assassin, some girls just got dumped by their first one week boyfriend."

Natasha gulped back her tears from flowing once again and looked up at him and said, "You're one of those guys who believe in second chances, aren't you?"

"I believe second chances are for those who never had a first chance," Clint replied back shortly causing Natasha to lean back in surprise. He said after a moment, "You deserve a first chance."

Natasha felt her eyes getting wet again. She shuddered them back and said, "So, you're not going to kill me."

"No," Clint said gently. "I'm not going to kill you."

Natasha, for the first time in her life, felt relief. She felt genuine relief. She had never been so relieved in her life that she had met someone like him. Someone who was trying to help her, not pity or use her.

"And you don't have to sleep with me," Clint said light heartedly with a smirk.

Natasha laughed genuinely as she put a hand to her mouth. "Thank you, Mr. Barton-"

"_Clint_."

"Clint," Natasha smiled.

Before Natasha or Clint could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. "Mr. Hawk, it is the police and the manager of the hotel."

Clint turned and gave Natasha an un-amused glance. "So, from wherever you got those bruises, did you finish the job or just walked off?" Clint asked irritably.

Natasha scoffed, "Please. I might be upset, but I know how to finish a job cleanly without involving my emotions."

Clint groaned, "Get into the bedroom." He threw Natasha's clothes into an open safe as she picked up her purse and shoes and listened. He walked to the door and opened it. "Can I help you?"

He looked at the hotel manager who looked scared shitless and the police investigator who looked completely aggravated. "Have you seen this woman?"

He pulled out a picture of Natasha Romanoff, walking. It was the same outfit she was wearing today. She looked outwardly calm, but Clint knew that she was going through the internal turmoil that she had explained to him just a few minutes. "No, why?" Clint lied perfectly.

"There is a woman downstairs who made a complaint about a woman, who matches this picture, climbing outside of her window on the 27th floor," the hotel manager squeaked.

"Oh, I really haven't seen her. I imagine I would've though," Clint lied. "What'd she do?"

"She just killed three of Moscow's finest police detectives," the detective said angrily. "Her name is Natalia Romanova. Have you ever heard of her?"

"Never."

"Do you mind if we can come in?"

"I do. I was just trying to catch up on some-"

From the bedroom, the three men heard a long moan. Clint internally cursed liberally,_ what is she playing at?_

"Who is that?" The detective asked.

"That's… um-"

From the bedroom, Natasha walked out with a blond straight wig with brown eyes. She looked like she had just woken up from… a long night. She was rubbing her eyes and was still in her kimono. "Reviens au lit- Qui sont-ils?," she asked in fluent French.

Clint turned to her and smirked. He replied back in French, "La police. Ils me demandent si je n'avais vu une femme à l'hôtel."

Natasha walked up to them and leaned against the door. She motioned to see the picture demandingly. Clint held back a smile since the men were clearly not paying attention to Clint's response, but Natasha's legs. In accented French, Natasha replied, "We've been preoccupied for the last three hours." She then turned to Clint and said, "Dites-leur de s'en aller."

Clint nodded for her to go back to bed. He then looked at them and shrugged, "Sorry, we couldn't help."

"If you see anything, please let us know," the police detective, intensely watching as Natasha began bending over the coffee table to read something. Clint looked back and saw that three of them had a lovely view of Natasha's rear and her foot that was scratching the back of her calf seductively.

"Of course," Clint replied as he closed the door. He then turned around and said to Natasha, "Attractive. Good French."

Natasha threw off the wig and let it fall to the floor. She turned around with her file in her hand and said, "You already knew my French was good, Clint."

"Along with your English, Latin. Also you must be commended for your conversational Hungarian, German, Spanish, and Chinese-"

"And Hindi," Natasha smirked. "It's a new one. This must be an old file." She pointed to the language list- it was missing Hindi.

"Give it about six months," Clint shrugged. "Do you carry those contacts and wig with you everywhere or was today a special occasion?" He asked sarcastically.

Natasha smiled, "It's cute that you think that I walk around as Natasha Romanoff all the time. I bet you're not always Clint Barton, but Clint Hawk a lot too."

Clint shrugged, "A nice portion of the time."

"The life of spies-"

_Ding~! Dong~!_

Clint motioned for her to put it on and move aside. Natasha listened and moved away into the bedroom, fixing her wig. He opened the door and could feel his heart drop when he saw who it was.

"Don't tell me it's true, Barton." It was Phil Coulson with his arms crossed. He had five SHIELD agents behind him. After a long awkward stare down, Coulson asked, "Where is she, Barton?"

"Coulson, I can explain-" Clint tried.

"Go inside," Coulson demanded. The five agents cocked their guns as they walked inside.

"Don't scare her," Barton said. "She'll kill all of them." He ran in front of them into the bedroom. He opened the door and instead of a sneak attack like he had expected, he saw Natasha sitting down on the bed with her hands folded. Her red hair was out and her blue eyes were back.

Coulson walked in and raised an eye when he realized that Romanoff was wearing very minimal clothing. He then turned to Clint and said evenly, "It would've really been better if it were a hooker. Then, you wouldn't need a psych evaluation too-"

"Jesus, I didn't sleep with her," Clint groaned.

"He rejected me actually," Natasha interjected as she moved a piece of hair behind her head. "I thought I could repay him for sparing my life by giving him a good night to remember. I thought sex was a good trade for a new job in the US government."

"New job?" Coulson asked. He looked at Natasha, then back at Clint, then back at Natasha. He then scoffed as he pointed at Clint, "You get to talk to Fury. I have nothing to do with any of this." He then motioned for the five other agents to follow him. "Oof, you're going to get it. Begin cleaning up the room. Barton, you need to be checking out in twenty minutes- clean yourself up." Clint heard Coulson demand from the living room as many of the agents began clearing the room for prints.

Clint groaned. "You're not a subtle person, are you?"

"I don't _limit _myself, according to the file," said Natasha. "Subtle is limiting, isnt it?"

Clint rolled his eyes with a smirk. He had to admit, she was pretty interesting.

* * *

**Review please :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sorry that I haven't updated in a while. I was skeptical and unsure whether or not I should add on or not- if I could. Please review and enjoy!

* * *

_December 7__th__, 2002 19:45- SHIELD Helicopter_

"So you're telling me that you thought that it was a good idea to bring in Black Widow, in an attempt to get her a job?" Nick Fury asked, amazingly casually as he paced back and forth in front of the one-sided mirror.

On the other side of the mirror, sat Natasha. She was sitting with her hands intertwined on the table, cuffed to the table.

Clint nodded slowly twice.

"Now, last question, Barton, I promise," Fury said evenly, still pacing.

Clint waited.

"Are you stupid?" Fury asked shortly with a twang of annoyance as he stopped and stared at Clint.

Maria Hill, who was leaning against the door, smirked along with Coulson as he let out a small chuckle.

"I don't see what is so funny, Agent Coulson and Agent Hill," hissed Fury, then glaring at the two other agents. "Because I don't see what's so funny about me having to explain to the Council that Natalia Romanova is not dead, but is actually here, in my interrogation room, waiting to be offered a job on my team!"

Clint let out a quick breath and said, "Look, Boss, Romanoff is good. She's the best assassin in Eastern Europe, and to just kill her would be pointless. We could use her, someone else to take down missions. I mean, sure, we have good lower agents, but to waste Natasha Romanoff's talents would be stupid. SHIELD could honestly use someone like her. She can fight, spy, and work-"

"The amount of red in her ledger is inexcusable," countered Fury.

"I have red too!" Clint shouted.

"No," Fury said, pointing at Clint. "What you have, Barton, in comparison to her, is Pink. You've got some light ass Valentine's day type shit pink."

"Just talk to her," Clint said, ignoring the comment. "Why don't you just talk to her? It would be a complete waste to just disregard the talent she has."

Fury leaned against the opposite wall and shook his head at Clint. "Clint, I know you're smarter than this."

"Boss, I-"

Fury put a hand so that he could go on. He then looked over to the mirror again, pointing his hand over to Natasha. She was tapping her fingers, gently chewing on her lower lip, and intently looking out towards the mirror as if she could see everything that was happening.

"Eighteen years old, long red hair, bright blue eyes-" Fury began to list, as if he were sympathizing with Barton. "-never ending curves, pouty lips, and I know that when she smiles, any man or even woman drop right to their knees. I get it, Barton. I get it, but-"

"Boss, it isn't like that!" Clint shouted, irritably. "She was a job who I think has potential. Give her a chance! She's never had a first, she deserves at least one to make up for the damage she's been taught to cause."

Fury groaned lowly. He let out a deep sigh and looked back at his two other agents. He then looked at Clint and then looked back inside. He then walked back to the door that lead to the interrogation room and walked confidently, but irritably, inside.

Clint immediately turned on the speaker to her what they began talking about.

"My name is Director Nick Fury and I am the head of SHIELD," he said mechanically like he did to all of the other agents when he first introduced himself. "You will refer to me as Director Fury, or Mr. Fury, which ever you prefer. Do I make myself clear, Miss Romanoff?"

"Crystal," Natasha said simply.

"When I assigned Agent Barton to assassinate you, I honestly expected that you would be dead by this hour. He is the perfect solider and spy, best agent I haven in SHIELD. Always listens to every order and completes it orderly because that is what we do at SHIELD. We keep world order," Fury said as he sat across from Natasha.

Natasha simply raised an eyebrow.

"So, if Barton broke the rules and the _order_ to keep you alive, there must've been a damn good reason why he did," Nick hissed lowly, slamming his fist on the desk. "Enlighten me."

"Enlighten you?" Natasha asked, her voice raising a notch higher, illustrating a sense of sensuality and curiosity. "How so?"

"Tell me why Agent Barton risked his job, his life, and more importantly, my job, to make sure you got out of the life in Russia," demanded Fury as he stretched out his arms. "Persuade me to hire you, Miss Romanoff, because in the course of the next three minutes, you could be dead for all I know."

This made Clint and Natasha both stand, and sit, straighter.

Natasha recovered much more quickly than Clint had. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, which was propped by her elbow on the table. "You should hire me because I know how to do my job. I can get intel, I can kill, and I can do it well. I've been trained to do this since I was six."

"Not enough," Fury said shortly.

Natasha sighed, "I can kill men in twelve seconds. I know 319 ways to kill people, including with the usage of objects. I can speak several languages fluently, and even more conversationally. I can become a chameleon. It's like not even there. I can do my job better than anyone in Eastern Europe."

"Not enough," Fury added. "Come on, Romanova. Just tell me what Barton saw in you and then I'll consider giving you asylum or that job."

"A nice ass and rack," Natasha smirked.

This caused Fury to crack a smile.

"He also seemed to take a liking to me because I know for a fact that there are 465 people on this aircraft you have here: 250 of them are intelligence agents, 100 of them are medical/science agents, 75 of them are engineers, and 85 are weapons/transportation experts. Then there is you, your two right hand agents, Clint, and then I. I also know that you have four distinct storage rooms that hold different weapons of mass destruction, roughly 500 in each," said Natasha simply.

Fury raised an eyebrow.

"I know how this world works, and I'd prefer to be on the other side," Natasha went on. "I might be young, but I have done a lot of damage that I need to make up. There is nothing else I can do, Director. So, you now have 1 minute and 12 seconds to decide whether I get to live or not. I'd prefer the former choice."

Fury got up and looked over to the mirror. Clint couldn't read the expression on Fury's face, so he just simply waited for Fury to come out. He let the door close before saying: "She's going to have to go through all of the tests, just like we did. A Psych evaluation, a stamina test, aim, strength, the works, Barton. You get to be her… _handler._"

Clint smirked, "On it."

"You get to tell her the good news," Fury said as he threw him the key to her handcuffs.

Clint walked into the interrogation room. He internally smiled at how Natasha's face lit up when he saw her. "You got it." He put up the key to her handcuff, but before he leaned down to un-cuff her, Natasha lifted her hands up, letting the cuffs from her hands.

Clint scoffed with a small smile.

"Thank you," Natasha said back.


End file.
